


A Tragedy of Man

by ElGato



Category: DCU (Comics), Wonder Woman (Comics), Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Symbolism, cosmic epic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-02-11 06:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12929367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElGato/pseuds/ElGato
Summary: Diana’s relationship with Steve is tested when she learns of secrets, histories, and thwarted fates that redefine their ties to one another. She has long held a favorable standing to her higher power. But too often there are those less fortunate.





	1. The Stone Well

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially a Magnum Opus for my Wonder Woman work that I have been planning and sorting out for a good amount of time. It all derives from various inspirations and Symbolism.
> 
> This is partly a Steve Trevor origin with a world built around it and partly a dark cosmic epic. I have long wanted to expand Diana’s world to beyond just Greek Gods, and what better way to introduce a larger world than through a man she cares about. But typical, our friend Liam Sharp over at DC may have beaten me to the punch with some of themes. 
> 
> Please be prepared, as I have done as much research as I can and tried to make this as relevant as I could that I do address Native American/Indigenous American cultures, though through a fictional lens. I introduce this because that is ultimately where Diana’s journey will be, America. And very few things are more central to America than the first people who resided on the land. As such, I do not do this to offend or undermine anyone, or any group. Carry on.

_ _

 

_ 1652, When the Strangers Came _

 

_ The Emerald Isle was just as green as you could imagine. A flush bright beacon in the cold cloudy seas. It’s richness and beauty undercut by strife and war, mostly, and notably, among it’s own inhabitants. The unity of the isle was only achieved through the invasion of an outsider. _

_ When Oliver Cromwell invaded the land, its people had to unite or die. And die they did, thanks, in part, to old grudges and habits. Years of oppression and failed opposition attempts would make the heart of mother earth fall grey with death and famine. _

_ The people of Osraighe wanted to escape such fates. Their people were not like the others. Their people freed themselves from thoughts of constant wars and learned from their dark history to live modestly as farmers and mediators. To save themselves, they would have to flee. _

_ So their chieftain, the appointed protector of the people of Osraighe, sold his farm and cattle, using the money to arrange to have a ship take his people away from Cromwell’s subjugation. In the night, they set away on the black inky waters letting their fates to God. _

_ The currents should have taken them to the colony near Massachusetts, and their chieftain was a good navigator. There they would hope to find refuge, though they did not know at the time that the Puritans of Massachusetts did not welcome Catholics from the old land. _

_ No amount of human perfection can stand against whims of the otherworldly. For indeed it may have been something otherworldly. The currents and winds did not take them to Massachusetts. They went off course further to the north. The detour added an extra five days to the estimated time to their travel. The people were restless and running out of rations. _

_ And then...land. _

_ They came to rocks and trees, stormy like the northern coasts of their homeland. _

_ They had found land, land of another people. _

_ The rocky shores the refugees landed on was inhabited by another people. These people watched with worry and hesitation as the chieftain of the stranger swam by himself to meet them. _

_ The Possesomuwinuwok had never seen a person like the Osraighe chieftain before with his blond hair and blue eyes, but they had heard stories of people like him from their southern neighbors. _

_ The stories the people of America told about these new strangers was unpleasant, but they watched, with wary fascination as Osraighe chieftain supplicated himself at their feet, asking for mercy. He came alone, in full surrender, and his people had very few weapons except for harpoons. This small group of invaders would be no match for the Possesomuwinuwok and their allies should they seek to start any violence. _

_ They gave them mercy. They gave them a home. They gave them food. And in return the people of Osraighe helped their saviors with tilling, plowing, and planting. _

_ For years, they peacefully helped one another, exchanged goods and crafts, went on hunting parties and share the land. _

_ But at times, the land would not give, which wasn’t so much of a problem for the Possesomuwinuwok on their own, but with more people on the land it made the next drought difficult. Extra hands hunted and tended, and still food was getting scarcer and scarcer with more mouths to feed.  
_

_ The Possesomuwinuwok, in times of need, turned to their spirits for guidance. The people of Osraighe turned to their God for salvation. But neither would come. _

_ Tensions became tighter, and the once peaceful friendship the two people’s had were on the verge of snapping. Until, in the dark of one moonlight night, a few young women from both the Possesomuwinuwok and the refugees conspired together in secrecy in hopes to find a way to save themselves and save peace. _

_ The young maidens from Osraighe had a secret. They had old knowledge from long before their ancestors turned to their Catholic god. Old knowledge that was met with caution and shame, despite it's nature whispered amongst the stern lips of mothers. But for the sake of the people who resided on the land, the maidens from Osraighe would momentarily cast away their religion, delve into the darkness of the old ways, committing a blasphemy in the highest order. _

_ These old ways matched well with the Possesomuwinuwok’s own in consulting in the spirits. Together, maidens from the Possesomuwinuwok and Osraighe joined in performing a grueling ritual they created together, plucking out their eyes, allowing their blood and tears seep into the cradle of Earth. The other specifics of such a ritual is unknown, but whatever happened, whatever they did…worked. _

_ After three days, the rains came. Fish returned to their fishing waters. Plants grew in abundance. _

_ Two of the colluding women--one from Possesomuwinuwok and one of Osraighe, had perished in the ordeal. The rest returned to their families with one eye, starved, and drained, but peace and prosperity was restored. The Osraighe women returned to their life of piety, giving their spiritual devotion back to their Catholic god, not deigning to speak of what they had just done to each other, or anyone else. _

_ Whatever happened in those three days would remain both a stain and a presence in what is now called New Ossory for centuries to come…the secrets locked tightly in the darkest of places… _

\-----

Diana was poised above her demonstration partner, having him on all fours, her arm wrapped around his middle as she gave Jessica Cruz and Simon Baz instruction. The Green Lanterns seemed to get some sort of kick watching Wonder Woman give instruction on grappling and wrestling techniques using her boyfriend as a demonstration example.

“He’s going to try to grab my arm and roll me over---”

That earned a silent laugh from Simon Baz, who covered his mouth to hide his humor, while Diana seemed to ignore him.

“---what you need to do --grab my arm Steve. There you go-- you need to continue the movement, preferably while your opponent is still moving.”

She paused, waiting for her paramour and partner in this self defense demonstration to make the move she was suggesting. Steve silently gripped her arm, paused, trying to muster enough strength to make it look at least convincing, and he moved quickly. Diana let up as he moved, but as he tried to gain the higher ground, she effortlessly grappled him hard back down on the mat in a swift professional move.

“See?” she said announced once she downed her partner. “Use their movement against them.”

Diana stood and helped Steve up, who rolled his shoulders to get rid of the ache from being thrown and flopped about by his girlfriend for the sake of teaching Green Lanterns self defense if they ever run into a situation where they run out of willpower. Just the basics, as Batman explained.

How Steve got roped into being the practice dummy was something someone else had to explain. He was, in short, at the right place at the right time, and Diana knew he had skill in wrestling--they had sparred a few times before on their own. Steve, per his reputation around League offices, was not going to say no to a request from Diana.

The couple removed themselves from the mat, Diana gesturing towards it, “Your turn guys.”

As Simon and Jessica stepped onto the mat, Steve heard his phone buzz in the far corner of the training room and left Diana’s side to answer it.

Diana watched as Simon formed a Macho Man Randy Savage construct for Jessica to practice her hand to hand skills with, keen eyes absorbing the inexperienced Lantern’s technique. As Randy Savage easily slipped out of Jessica’s grip, Diana barked, “If the opponent is bigger, it’s always best to let them make the first move and use that move to your advantage. Keep going, Jessica.”

“You two make it look so professional though,” Jessica grunted as she tried to take out Randy Savage’s legs.

“We try,” Diana said in amusement, but turned when Steve came up to her side, phone in hand.

“Sorry, I have to cut out, Di,” he said, a bit of anxiety readable on his face.

“Government or military business?” she asked. “Or can you not tell me?”

Steve shook his head, “It’s a family thing…I think. I’ll tell you the rest after I come back.”

“Go,” she said in a clinical tone, before catching Steve by the collar of his performance shirt as he turned away and kissing him briefly on the lips.

“Awww.” Simon and Jessica had stopped practicing and were staring at the two with teasing grins on their faces. Even Simon’s Macho Man Randy Savage was giving them to thumbs up. At which Diana clapped her hands and demanded they get back to training.

\-----

Steve hadn’t been to Oklahoma in a long while. If he had it was mostly on government business. But this wasn’t business. He could describe it as obligation. As he drove through the flat planes and never ending sky, he couldn’t help but feel a bit unsure of why he was going through Oklahoma in the first place. It was his birthplace, but he rarely had reason to go there. He was raised in New England. That was by and large his home. Why would he come back to an empty husk?

A man was dead. That’s why.

And he was supposed to meet the members of his nation for his passing.

He parked his car in a dirt lot in front of a large community building that seemed to be built in the middle of nowhere. The building itself was modern, with a long paved tilestone walkway, nestled surrounded by cloudy skies and tall grass.

Quickly he strode to the community building, wanting to meet with whomever he had to meet with. He supposed he could wait for his sister. She was coming too as soon as she dropped her kids off at their father’s place, but she wouldn’t be arriving until later. Well, he was here now...

“Steven Trevor,” he heard a big thundering voice from behind him.

A tall muscular native man was approaching him up the track. Steve’s eyes narrowed as he didn’t recognize this man. He was older, probably a bit past middle aged. He wore a well worn forest aviator jacket and a billed army cap that was riddled with accolades from the Vietnam war.

Steve was hyper sensitive about his position in life. He knew his color and gender gave him things that others didn’t. And he was well aware of what people of his color had done to native lands and their people. He wouldn’t exactly blame them if he entered this deeply indiginous community and they greeted him with less than friendly terms. So...he was cautious as the man approached him. Not to say the least that this man he never met clearly knew his name.

“Yes?” he couldn’t hide his hesitancy.

The man seemed to be amused about that. “I suspected as such. White people stick out in these parts, you understand. But I figured if you’re invited on nation community grounds for a funeral…you have to be Eireann’s boy.”

Steve paused, the very name causing a whimper to begin to erupt from his throat. Until he swallowed it down, “You--you knew my mom?”

“Very much so. And old Howard Rock Well as well. May he rest in peace.” He held out his hand, “Martin Hollow Horn, but you may have heard of my other name. Apache Chief.”

The name rang a bell. He took the man’s hand, “I have heard of you. You have been honored several times at the Pentagon for your service in Vietnam through Desert Storm. Thank you for your service, Mr. Hollow Horn.”

“Call me Apache Chief. I’m used to it. My friends gave me that name in the jungles of ‘Nam and it hasn’t died since. And I still like to hang on to some of my time in the service.”

Apache Chief gestured up the pathway to the community center that held the Cherokee Nation seal above its doors. As the two walked side by side, Apache Chief continued to strike up the conversation.

“Good man, Howard Rock Well. I was in charge of his unit for a good while. Heck of a pilot, even better commanding officer. And all the military stuff did not wipe that smile off his face. The man truly loved everything, it seemed like.”

“I hadn’t had much interaction with the man,” Steve shrugged. “Only a couple of times that I can recall. That said, my family owes a lot to him. He was a friend of my mom’s and was my godfather.”

“He was at your birth, I heard.”

Steve nodded, though feeling a bit awkward that this man knew so much about him. Military talk he supposed. The military, in Steve’s opinion, was a gossip mill, which is probably why much of their security briefings were also monitored by the FBI. “Yup,” he said, “She went into labor on her visit with him at his home in the Osage Res. The reservation at the time only had a clinic and the hospital was miles away. I guess I came too quick anyway. I was told I was delivered in Howard’s trailer. I'm a bit ashamed to say it this way, but that is probably the white trashiest thing about me. And I own a red Ford truck.”

Apache Chief smirked, “Born in a trailer probably is not the most ideal way to come into the world. But we all come into it screaming. I too was born in a tin shack, if that makes you feel better.”

“Are you really Inde? Or did your friends just give you ‘Apache Chief’?”

“Born and raised on the Mescalero reservation,” Apache Chief said with a tinge of pride, but appeared to lament over the life he left when he entered the military world.

They stopped in front of the doors, but Apache made no move to go in, instead he held back and leaned on the rail of the balcony next to the entrance and overlooked the broad expanse of field that dipped into a forest in the distance. “Howard Rock Well… You mind if I tell you story?”

Steve dropped his poised hand on the door handle.

“The name reminds me of an old tale. It’s a tale found in a lot of places, but ultimately has roots so old the details are forgotten. There was an adventurer, and honorable warrior who roamed the land doing what warriors and adventurers do, but at one point, water became scarce. He ventured forward, hoping to find a lake, the ocean, a river, anything that would quell his thirst and save his life.”

“One day, just when he thought he could go no further, he came across a puddle and drank his fill. It was then when he realized that the water was spilling from within Mother Earth. The man took this as a gift from her, for she had saved his life. He cried out to her, wanting to thank her in ways he could not hope to achieve.”

“Over time he built his well made of rocks on the site, going deeper and deeper, drinking straight to Mother Earth’s heart, where, they say, he did not find water, but found love. His well led directly to Earth’s elusive heart.”

“And then what?” Steve asked. The man before him shrugged.  


“Depends on who you ask. I suppose it doesn’t matter either way,” Apache shoved his hands in his jean pockets. “As I said, I came here to say goodbye to a friend, but I do have some last wishes to uphold. Which is why I am talking to you. I’m not the executor of his will, but he did charge me with one favor.”

“And that favor had something to do with me?”

Apache Chief nodded, “As well as your sister. A few months prior to his liver failure, he uncovered a letter addressed to him at his sister’s house in the Osage Nation reservation. He never received this letter. Apparently, Melanie Rock Well thought what lied in its contents was a secret worth keeping. I visited Howard when he was starting to get ill and he asked me to tell you about what was in the letter, and what his family wanted to keep secret from him.”

Apache Chief pulled out a yellowed envelope, the edges torn, presumably the letter inside. “It’s from your mom, Steve. And I really wish your sister was here to hear this.”

The younger man took the envelope. “Tracy is getting here as fast as she can. What’s so important that she has to know as well?”

The man seemed to hesitate, adjusting the bill of his hat nervously, before lamenting, “Steve, Howard Rock Well was your dad.”

\---

“Stevie would you sit down?” Tracy Trevor started at her brother in worry as she sat on her bed. After the memorial of their newly revealed biological father, Steve and his sister drove until they found the Wagon Wheel Motel along Route 66. There they booked a room to stay the night and Steve lasted all of five minutes before he bought some Jack Daniels and some pretzels from the gas station across the street.

He was upset, that wasn’t hard for his younger sister to see, even as he was now pacing back in forth in their hotel, trying to reconcile the knowledge that his godfather, a man he met but hardly knew, was outed as his mom's lover, and their biological father. Steve had to have trouble comprehending the very perception that his hero growing up wasn't a saint. Steve long believed his father was a soldier who worked alongside Eireann Trevor at the Air Force but perished during an operation. She told them that she loved little Stevie so much that she wanted to give more love in the form of a donor's essence that helped Eireann bring her angel Tracy into the world. Maybe it was too much to assume the rose tinted words thier mother gave them about their lives were complete truth. Maybe the world just didn't have that perfection in humankind. Still Steve believed the basic tenants of the tale. There was very little reason not to.  


“I just don’t understand it…” he grumbled out despite the thousand or so questions he had in his head.

“Steve--”

“Mom was having an affair with her commanding officer the whole time. Had two children by him and he didn’t even know,” he murmured to himself, sounding distinctly betrayed. “And when he found out did he even--”

“He probably didn’t realize how short of time he had left when he found the letter at his sister’s home. Not that I blame her for hiding us. Rightfully didn’t want two half breed kids benefiting off tribal foundations. And Howard probably didn’t think it right to suddenly show up after we’re all grown and moved on with our lives.”

“Why are you taking this so well?” he grumbled, annoyed that she was taking this bombshell in stride.

Tracy looked piteously at him, “Because Steve, it doesn’t surprise me. I wish it did, but it doesn't. Mom’s...a wonderful woman, but was human and made mistakes.”

“I know that,” he said with sigh of annoyance, taking another large sip of his third whiskey. “And it’s not so much the affair that hurts me, but the fact that she didn’t think to tell us.”

“And she may have,” Tracy replied, watching him pace. “For all we know she would’ve told us in person eventually. If her life wasn’t cut short.”

He blanched at those words, wounded, however lightly. “One wonders what other secrets she hides.”

“Steve-”

“I just want to be satisfied that she...she---”

“Still has a reputation?” Tracy inquired, arching a brow.

“She never much cared for reputation and neither do I,” Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes. “No, I’m going back up to New Ossory--home. Sort things out, you know. See if...there's details we still overlooked.”

The stony expression his fair sister gave was the very answer as to how she felt about his plan. “What more can you expect to find? We've been up there so many times wouldn't you think if there was more, we'd find it? The kids have gotten into every nook and cranny in that space and not a skeleton in sight."  


“Just as well, I haven’t been up there in a while. Been busy dealing with --”

“Whatever the hell Washington is right now?” she offered, brow arched.  


“Yeah. I need time to...get away from things,” he said staring at the swirling liquor in his glass, dwelling in keeping his attention on the ways the shapes and colors shifted into dream like images. Images of him free of meetings and yelling and a distinct fear that things at his work weren't okay. He would almost rather be in war torn Sudan now. Hell, the very moment Apache Chief told him the truth he wanted to be anywhere but here. Preferrably off planet.  


Tracy sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat, “Just do me a favor, Steve, before you go. Talk to Diana, please. I know you won’t unless I ask you.”

He gave her an incredulous look, “I thought you didn’t care for my relationship with her.”

“I don’t,” she replied flatly. “I don’t like how she treated you in the past after you gave her so much, and I am not convinced she won’t break your heart again. Relationships...rarely change after multiple chances.”

His sister ignored the insulted look on his face, “But it would make me feel better to know someone’s looking out for you during this. You take things too much to heart, and I don’t want to see you depressed again. Especially over something not in your control.”

“You seem to think I can’t take care of myself,” Steve bit back before tossing the rest of his whiskey back. "You wouldn't be the only one..."  


Tracy’s face grew solemn, her eyes cast out the window, watching the glaring white sphere of the moon pierce her eyes, “As a relative of a career soldier I am trained and prepared in the knowledge that one day I will bury you. Every time I get a voice mail message, or there’s a knock at the door, I am so afraid that it will be someone telling me you aren’t ever coming back.”

She stood up from the bed, hands bracing the sides of his arms, holding him in place, “I worry about you Stevie. Constantly. The things you like to do; the people you get involved with...it’s way too similar to what mom used to do. And look where that got her.”

At that, tears welled up in his sister’s eyes, as she openly wept, “I know you do so much to protect me and Allison and Ian, but I have to protect you too. As much as I can. I can’t stand to see people take advantage of your good heart, exploit it, and abuse your goodwill. And I'm sorry--I can't follow this curiousity you have. I have to be there for my kids. So the only way I can think to protect you now is to tell you to be with _her_."  


He kept still, letting his little sister try to gather herself, tears seeping into his jacket. He slowly and just a bit awkwardly wrapped his arms around her and reassured her, cautiously reminded on how he'd comforted her when she was picked on when they were children. Perhaps he was being selfish. Tracy had moved on, free to focus on what truly mattered to her--her children. How she was able to do it, he struggled to comprehend.  


"I-I appreciate your protection, Trace," he said softly, letting her back away to wipe her eyes, trying in vain to prevent them from growing puffy and red. He held her at arms length, regarding her with private heartache, "And I'll ask Diana to come with me. If that would make you feel better."

She sniffed and nodded, "Much better."


	2. New Ossory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diana joins Steve in his return to his remote hometown.

__

 

_1870, Attempts to Raid the Homestead_

_The Fenian Brotherhood, a group of Irish nationalists based in the United States were on the verge of flaring out just as quickly as they sparked. Nearly four years ago they had captured an unlikely victory against the massive Royal Canadian Mounted Police and have tried to capture that sweet taste of success ever since._

_To most, their goal was unattainable. A small group of untrained Irishmen seeking to invade Canada to establish a base force to combat the British occupying their homeland of Ireland seemed to be an insurmountable task. But the success of their raid gained them great support. And the States were taking them seriously._

_The Fenians set their sights on Passamaquoddy Bay, yet they didn’t dare take the same trek over the border as they did in their victory four years ago. The defense forces were doubled and no matter how much Irish pride or steel the Fenians could muster, they couldn’t hope to invade against a prepared Royal Canadian Mounted force who had learned their lesson._

_Instead their scouters pointed to a small bay town, nestled deep in the dark Maine wilderness. New Ossory was perfect for them. Small town, mostly Irish inhabitants, and close to the border, there was very little doubt that they would form a base there._

_All it needed to take was to convince the people there to allow them to stay. The Fenians figured it wouldn’t be hard._

_But one thing the Fenians weren’t was discreet. They had a policy, indoctrinated by their Catholic beliefs, that spying and subterfuge was not allowed. It was a basic tenet of war that they rejected, for noble but foolish reasons. So word reached the citizens that the Fenians would take their baseless revolution to their small town of New Ossory. The leaders of the coast town spoke on what to do with them. Among their leaders was Civil War veteran Stiofan O’Treabhair. He and the Possesomuwinuwok leader Maturpurok decided quite easily that the Fenians would not take their war to their home._

_There was no underestimating the pride of the inhabitants of New Ossory. But their pride did not lie with their Irish roots. It lied in the community they built with Possesomuwinuwok, their home._

_Maturpurok led his warriors against the invasion, capturing Fenians when they tried to navigate the trees. The first small wave of Fenian revolutionaries were easy pickings. But the invaders were passionate. They hung on until O’Treabhair brought in his reinforcements, outnumbering the frontal assault and forcing the Fenians to retreat. But they swore to return._

_This time they sent a small advance party around the town, delving deeper into the woods. The party of five Fenian revolutionaries, their rifles in their hands, slowly and softly crunched through the leaves, keeping their eye out for any of Maturpurok’s men, who were known to hide among the mists and the trees in ambush._

_“Roger, you hear that?” One of the young Fenians whispered to his leader as they trudged through the pines._

_“No, Donal. I didn’t. Keep moving.”_

_Roger knew the young man was jumpy, but being overly cautious was just making the rest of the men see ghosts from every shadow. Roger titled his eyes up at the colorless sky between the crooked canopy of the branches above. He heard the sound of a branch falling, glanced over, and kept his eyes on the direction where the sound came from._

_Donal immediately readied his weapon, but stopped when Roger raised his hand and said in a hushed tone, “Wait here.”_

_Roger left his brethren behind to go and investigate the sound. The sound was a curious thing. It was almost too loud. As if the woods were silent, lifeless. Roger cautiously stepped between twigs and sticks, keeping his eyes open, ready at any sign of movement._

_When he reached several paces away from his party, he stopped, cursing Donal for making him so jumpy and nervous. Not wanting to leave his party on their own, he walked back towards their low voices and found them resting by a large mossy stone._

_Refusing their questioning glances, he ordered, “Let’s go. And be a little more quieter, lads.”_

_The rest did their best to follow their instructions, but the deeper they went, the more uneasy they felt. It was becoming endless. Surely they would’ve reached town by now. Roger glanced up at the sky again, trying to determine the direction they were heading._

_The feeling that they were lost overcame the fear of New Ossorian warriors, and they began to search in vain for any sign as to where they were._

_“Wait...wait…” one of the men rushed towards a large stone. An awfully familiar large stone. “Was this---”_

_“Jesus Christ,” another of the scouts uttered. “Is that the same rock?”_

_Roger shook his head, “No, that can’t be.” Every part of his brain told him_ yes, it was the same rock, _his mouth did its best to not only convince his soldiers but also himself that it wasn't._

_“Sure is,” Donal shot back, irritated. “We sat on dat rock when ya went out to chase a stick!”_

_The young man gripped his rifle tightly and stared up at the trees, the grey sky giving no indication of what time of day it was. It was as if they were in a skyless nightmare, trapped in an open prison. He stammered in horror, “We’re goin' in circles.”_

_“You must’ve stepped on a leprechaun, Donal,” Roger didn’t hide his sarcasm and that didn’t settle well with the young man._

_“You were leading us! Did you take a wrong turn?”_

_Roger sighed and cocked his head as if he were speaking to a petulant son. Still, he confessed, “I took us in a straight line.”_

_“That’s what I figured,” the revolutionary by the stone grunted as he propped his leg on the rock. Roger gave the other three scouts credit for at least keeping a cool head. Though who knows how long that would last. They needed to find the town---a town, soon._

_Roger adjusted his hat, and jutted his thumb straight ahead of him, in the same direction they were walking when they came upon the stone, “Fine, we’ll head down that way.”_

_No sooner had Roger made the call when the lightless sky opened up, rain falling gently, and then, quickly, pounded onto the revolutionaries, practically tearing through the branches of the trees._

_“Does this blasted forest e’er end?!” one of the soldiers cried through the hammering sounds of the rain pelting the earth._

_“It’s becoming impossible to see, sir!”_

_“Keep forward!” Roger urged trying to hide his uneasiness and frustration. He struggled to find a clear direction, and he couldn’t tell if he had seen this area before or not. He wondered aloud if he had made an awful mistake."Follow me---and we'll make it through."_

_In the end, Maturpurok and his warriors came upon the Fenians. All of them. Their corpses hidden in the pines, every one seemingly impaled on the very black branches of the forest. The men gazed up in horror, feeling an uneasy chill that spoke of bad omens. Maturpurok retreated and confided in O’Treabhair over what he had seen. Officially, the second Fenian wave was destroyed by the New Ossory forces. But the vague facts told otherwise. There was something else destroyed the Fenians' hope…_

When Diana was restless, it was easy to notice. And it astonished some of the newer members who have joined full time at the Watchtower. She was well known for her calm wisdom and professional manner. But ever since Steve had told her what transpired during his trip to Oklahoma, she had been eager to funnel all her focus towards him. As a result, Diana was easily distracted, seemingly always in a rush to go from one place to another, giving short hurried responses to the questions of Doctor Fate and John Stewart.

She was spending much of her time exploring spiritual realms. Upside-down World, Tuatha de Dennan---or at the very least a mirage of it. It turns out, as per his nature Cernunnos is as mysterious as the woods of his origin. When she left the mystical realm with Bruce-she couldn't help but be reminded when she had last encountered Fake Themyscira, an illusion or an alternate reality.

After that mission, she found herself with unlikely allies in Zatanna and Swamp Thing defeating magic forces splitting through the spiritual veils.

Needless to say, she could've used a few moments in reality.

Diana's friend, a Superman named Clark, decided to approach her at one of the consoles, watching her speak pointedly to Black Canary. Diana must have seen him approach her from the side and quickly finished her conversation with Dinah, before she turned off the console.

“You seem to be in a hurry,” he commented, leaning against said console.

“Just trying to make some last minute arrangements before I leave,” Diana said with a tinge of weariness. “I feel guilty no matter what I do here. Steve needs me right now, but if I go with him, I’m abandoning my duties and others who depend on me. If I stay here, then I’m abandoning Steve.”

“If he needs you, it must be serious. Is everything alright?” was Clark’s warning tone, his eyebrow arched. Diana's partner was known for constantly getting in trouble, but usually nothing he or Wonder Woman couldn't handle. Whenever a call would come in for her, Diana more or less met the opportunity with a hint of delight, happy to expend some energy helping her distressed lover. That was not to say she didn't care about Steve's welfare. He was tough man, a broken bone or a bullet wound hadn't stopped him before, he wouldn't ever go down quickly and Diana is the embodiment of power and grace, very few held a chance against her might, so it stood to reason that Diana felt she could afford a slight dip in urgency.

A few times, especially recently, Diana dropped the casual-daily-boyfriend-rescue front and took everything one-hundred-percent seriously. In those cases, Steve's balance between life and death was truly in jeopardy. As a husband who loved his wife, Clark could only imagine the same if he found out she was in serious trouble.

He watched as she licked her lips, as if she were debating if she should reveal her partner's latest ordeal.

“A family friend of his passed away,” Diana replied, purposely vague. She remembered when he called her after the funeral of what turned out to be his father. She could tell he was holding back a strong desire to cry. The shakiness of his voice, the lost pitch of a man who had no clue what to say or do next wasn’t something Diana was going to forget anytime soon. Her heart went out to him as he told her what happened and what he was going to do next.

Because of the delicate nature of Steve’s privacy, Diana wasn’t going to tell Clark too many details if she could help it.

Clark in turn hung his head and said clearly, “I’m sorry to hear that, Diana. But if I were in your situation, I wouldn’t hesitate to be with my significant other in their time of need.”

The expectant look on her face melted a bit, relieved that Clark understood. Of course he understood. If anything, he was one of the members who urged her to take a bit more time off.

Diana rubbed her brow and sighed, “Thanks, Clark. I promise I won’t be long.”

_20 before the present..._

_Seventeen-year-old Steve Trevor was reaching that point in his life where he had to choose. Choose from a million different options. It was like he was at a crossroads with so many directions they all seemed to merge into one. For all those paths he never really thought about the future or which path to take._

_Steve was fairly tall for his age, well built for a teen, sufficient to do well as a defensive tackle in football and a center in hockey. He also was well known for his golden blond hair and blue eyes, traits earned from his equally fair looking mother. Needless to say Steve was reasonably well liked in town. But that may have been because he tended to keep to himself. He had friends, and interacted well in school, but he wasn’t a busy body. He minded his own business, refused gossip, and didn’t throw his weight around. Some would describe him as reserved, but prone to bouts of gregariousness, others would call him strangely sensitive and happily extroverted. Perhaps a healthy mix of contradictions.  
_

_Despite all this, he did not have the forethought to think about the future._

_So, here he was, sitting in a rickety wooden chair made of cherry wood, looking across a desk at the abbot of the town cathedral. For such a small town, it wasn’t unheard of for the local clergy to get involved in the counseling of the youth. Especially as they were set to graduate from high school and enter the next step of their lives._

_Yet there was no illusion that, like many of the people in this close-knit town, Steve wouldn’t see much beyond the black giants of trees that walled his town away from the usual American hustle and bustle. It was often envied, though. People lived at a relatively carefree pace there. Not many had a desire to move away._

_Maybe, that made Steve a little uneasy, just the thought of being boxed in causing him to shift in his seat. A little shaken and at a loss of where and what he should do next._

_It was cold inside the scriptorium and it was only lit by candles. It was Brother Idan’s preferred way when doing his reflections and meditations. Still, Steve had his blond hair still tucked into his beanie, hands buried into his thick canvas coat to fight away the chill._

_“So,” Brother Idan said in his calm Irish brogue, “have you thought about what you wanted to do after college?”_

_The chair creaked as Steve shifted again, “No, sir. Truth be told I’m not entirely sure what I’m good at.”_

_At this, the old monk rose his grey eyebrows, “Oh, I find that hard to believe.”_

_“Ever think about theology?”_

_Steve shook his head._

_“Not even an interest in it?”_

_A shrug and a shake of his head._

_There was a smile on Idan’s lips as leaned forward and shook his own head in exasperation. “Steven, I would like to help you, so I’m going to need a little more than that. If you do not want my help, you are free to leave.”_

_The young man tightened his lips as he forced himself to answer, “I-I-don’t know if I have an interest.” He paused to meet the clergyman in the eye. “Brother.”_

_The Abbott glanced down at his own twiddling thumbs as if he were finding the next words to say. “You know, Steven, I wasn’t always a monk. I wasn’t always a servant of God.”_

_He played with the grey prickly ends of his beard on his chin as he went on. “I was a lawyer in Munster. Spent several years at a partnership until, one day, I made the realization that the job no longer satisfied me. So I took on my role in the church.”_

_“What made you do that?”_

_The older man gave it a small thought and answered, “I can’t say it was one specific thing. Religion I suppose is a part of every Irish man’s life in some way or another. Perhaps it was the easiest route for me. Well, it certainly landed me an opportunity to leave Ireland to come here, to, erm, give the priory the attention it deserved,” Brother Idan motioned along the domed walls of the scriptorium, nearly every inch of the stone covered in chalk etchings and drawings. Steve followed where his hands gestured looking all around the place. He too was long familiar with these walls of the scriptorium and the designs that decorated them. As a child, he was one of the very many young designers to give their marks on the wall._

_“We’ll have to pick this up some other time, Steven,” said Brother Idan, with a sense of resignation in his voice. The man wasn’t one to give up on his duty to help young men and women as they enter their future, but for Steve, there would be plenty of discussion to come. He just needed more patience. Your mother probably wouldn’t like you out so late.”_

 

_It was dark as Steve drove down the winding road that wove through the trees, the forest black as night during the winter evening, only the yellow headlights of his family’s truck illuminating the way._

“...before we break out the next artist to rock your way into the bars and clubs to get your party on…” _the voice on the radio was wobbly, the signal of the rock radio station 20 miles away struggling a bit to penetrate the remote town of New Ossory._ “...we have Chrystal with some news…”

_Steve wished he could say that he found his time with Brother Idan valuable in getting him to decide how he wanted to live his future. There were things he did, things he enjoyed doing that he could never think to make a career out of, but he never felt any calling to one path or another._

_“...farmers along Passamaquoddy Bay report several attacks on livestock. New Ossory and Glensstead investigators have no leads as to what animal could be the culprit. The repair of Amnesty Bay lighthouse…”_

_Another question on the back of his mind: was he okay with that? But he was seventeen. He cared far more about getting his hours at the sandwich shop and football practice than figuring out what he wanted to do for the rest of his life._

_The grip on the steering wheel tightened as he sighed. There was the family business. His relatives had long been members of the military, but none of them brought it up to him as an option. Perhaps there wasn’t as great of a need for troops since when they were in the service. There was also a mill that his family owned somewhere. He could probably find something stable there. But he would be one of many young men who just settled for local logging. It was safe; it was guaranteed. But Steve supposed the reason for Brother Idan's meetings was to maybe find more for him. Maybe.  
_

_The radio broke his thoughts as it began to roar in static, the actual voice of the late night DJ turning into a muffled garbled roar, words, barely discernible ones, waning in and out behind the piercing noise._

_Groaning in agitation, issuing a few curses about useless and outdated radio towers, Steve glanced down at the radio dial and turned it, trying to find a signal. The voice turned from garbled back to smooth and clear._

_Steve glanced back up towards the road and gave a shout of horror, eyes staring at him through the windshield careening closer and closer at break-neck speed…_

“Steve?”

He snapped out his trance with a soft breath. The first thing he noticed was a strong elegant hand on his at the steering wheel, rubbing gently, asking him silently to loosen his white-knuckled grip.

He glanced at his side to see the Diana staring at him with a concerned look. She tilted her head, searching his face underneath his baseball cap.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Steve said as he sucked in a breath. He then let it out, “...yeah..”

Steve adjusted his worn Navy baseball cap and answered, “I just have to check out a few things. Talk to a few people. See how much people...people knew. There’s also lawyer-y stuff I need to look into.”

“It may be too much to ask to not think too much about it,” Diana kept her eyes on him, almost at a loss of what she could do to help him. And he seemed fairly resistant in letting her know what she could do to help him feel better.

“It may be…” his voice drifted off as he turned down a road that cut through an open field towards yet another formidable forest, but not before they set their sights upon a flashing sign advertising a large compound--a casino to be specific--an eight pointed multicolored star emblazoned the sign, a symbol of not only the casino, but the entire community.

Steve shifted in his seat, “Looks like Fisher Nightfoot expanded his casino. Hard to believe that nearly a decade ago this wasn’t here.”

If Steve was trying portray his opinion on the topic, Diana couldn’t tell what it was. She suspected he was trying to use the apparent recent expansion as a distraction for why he was here in the first place.

Having been to New Ossory before--it was a very brief visit before she had to be called away on business-- Diana could recognize where the road passed through a reservation. The Possesomuwinuwok reservation, also known as Star Reservation was large, taking much of the flat plains in the otherwise completely forested New Ossory region. Land wise, it expanded a greater area than New Ossory proper, containing fields with farms, and cabins in forests, fisheries near reservoirs, whereas the town just outside contained much of the streets and shops. Despite it being a reservation with boundaries of its own, Diana struggled to know where the line was actually drawn. Steve explained that it was in fact blurry, townsfolk and citizens on the reservation couldn’t say exactly where Star Reservation and New Ossory proper met.

Steve however understood landmarks, and the casino was the biggest landmark on the ocean side.

The truck slowed as they reached around the bend and the wheels of the vehicle effortlessly turned onto a long paved driveway that led through copse of trees to a modest looking house overlooking the coast. The atmosphere was stormy and very unlike the sandy beaches that lined the coast of her home. The house was atop a cliff, safely tucked high and above the rough waves that could be heard smashing into the stone facade.

It wasn’t always like this. Steve assured her that the sea settles in the morning and night. And, despite this, the breeze from the ocean was softer than expected, but still cold. And as Steve unlocked the door to his home and stepped over the threshold, inside wasn’t much better.

“It’s a bit chilly,” Diana commented. The house was not suffused with warmth that she was used to. Cold didn’t bother her as much as a normal mortal, but it does take an adjustment period, and she was all too aware of the chill from the ocean at the moment.

“Yeah we turn the furnace off when we’re not here. And it turns out the northern Atlantic coastline is colder than hell. I’ll go turn it on.”

“I’ll go,” she volunteered instead.

“In the cellar. You just need to plug it in,” Steve instructed as Diana opened the door to the colder basement.

Immediately she was met with darkness, the only light access at the very bottom. She would have to carefully navigate her way down the steps to reach it, however, she only made it one step before she saw the floor of the cellar…

...and a pale figure on all fours on the ground staring grimly back up at her.

Startled, Diana swallowed a yelp and stumbled back up the step into the hallway. Steve immediately turned his attention to her, noticing his girlfriend growing tense, in much the same way someone afraid of spiders would when they would encounter one crawling inside their home.

But, when Diana dared to look back down, all she saw was blackness. Nothing pale or otherwise could be seen.

“What is it?” was his concerned tone.

He was surprised to hear her cautious exhale as she stared at the nothingness at the bottom of the steps.

“I thought I saw someone down there. A-a woman, I think.”

The look Steve gave her was as blank as could be. Diana could barely stand it. Even to her that sounded crazy.

“Look--”

Before Diana had time to explain that she wasn’t one to hallucinate things, Steve stepped down the rickety steps, wood creaking with each footfall as he braved the darkness. She followed, relieved to hear his boots touch the pavement safely, and then a click. Light from the overhead bulb lit the basement in a soft orange-yellow glow, the shadows still persisting in the corners of the stone walls. The washing machine and dryer, various tools and paints, fishing poles, old signs, snowshoes, dismantled kayaks, skis, a refrigerator and a massive pile of wood lined the walls of the cellar, leaving an open space in the center, where Steve was staring down at two marks on the cement floor curiously. Diana in the meanwhile whipped her head around, to be sure nothing was hiding among the shelves. If there was anything hiding among the clutter that was any larger than a mouse, Diana didn’t see it.

 _Curious,_ she thought. _I'm not usually this bad with unfamiliar places._

“I don’t see anything,” her lover uttered, turning his head over his broad shoulder, back at her.

“Yes I see that,” she folded her arms over her chest and huffed, dismayed and confused.

“What? Is the mighty Princess of Themyscira afraid of the dark?” Steve’s mouth grew into an impish grin and Diana lightly shoved him in response. He chuckled at her defensiveness.

“I’m not crazy, Steve.”

“Of course not. It could be just being in a new place, your mind playing tricks on you,” he replied, glancing down at a spot in the cement, the deep smear disrupting the smoothness.

_The cement was wet when ten-year-old Steve pressed his hand to the ground. This wasn’t there the last time he cautiously ventured down here. But as he entered the cellar to get his fishing pole he noticed a square in the center of the cellar floor, freshly filled._

_His curiosity drove him to investigate, however no sooner had his hand sank through the wet, dark grey mixture, when his mother wrenched him back, his fingers slashing through the cement as he was pulled away, permanently imprinting as it would harden._

_“What ‘er you doing child?” his mother’s exasperated voice doing little to hide the sliver of panic in her accented voice._

_“I was...I was just trying to find my pole,” Steve stammered through his shock._

_His mother’s bright blue eyes shifted from the square of fresh cement to the walls of appliances and tools. Her face softened considerably. She turned and reached behind the washing machine, retrieving Steve’s long desired fishing pole. She arched her brow. “This is what ye’re looking for?”_

_Steve nodded._

_His mother held the pole straight in front of her, one hand on her hip. A relenting sigh passed through her lips, “Ye be back by two, okay? Ye're chores still need to get done.”_

_He nodded again._

_She handed him his fishing pole, and stepped aside giving him lovingly stern instruction, “And go wash yer hands, too, luv, before you venture out.”_

_Steve didn’t wait to be told twice and he obeyed, fishing rod in hand, scampering up the wooden steps to the upper floor, hearing his mother give one last warning._

_“And be careful where ye meddle next time.”_

He wondered if that incident with the wet cement was the start of the secrets. But, it was just as likely that his mother had work done to maintain the old home. She had renovated the home whenever she could, adding the deck and the bay windows. She all but stripped the remnants of her father's days, but still kept his and her mother's legacy alive through the books they collected and their memorial on the mantle of Trevors past.

“Steve?” Diana called from the top of the cellar stairs. He blinked and tore his eyes away from the permanent mark on the floor.

“Coming” he replied to her unasked question, plugging in the furnace and joining her on the ground floor. When he closed the door to the cellar, he withheld a wry grin.

“It’s an old place. It’s easy for things to play tricks on the senses. I can’t tell you how many times what I thought were werewolves turned out to be raccoons down there.”

 “Are you making fun of me?”

“Never dream of it,” he rumbled with a smile and gently pulled her hand towards his, “Did I ever show you the bedroom I had as a kid?”

“Yes,” Diana answered honestly, “but I would like to see it again. I only got a passing glance the few times I’ve seen it.”

He silently complied, leading her to the bedroom at the end of the hall. This room was the second largest room in the house, following the large high ceiling living area. It was a wide room, held a bunk bed with neatly folded sheets on top of the mattresses, a few dressers, toys for varying ages littered about, yet arranged neatly. The room captured childhood perfectly, the walls, the best part of the room painted with images of stories. Myths. Legends. Fairy Tales. Figures with sharp and soft angles drawn simplistically with a steady hand.

Steve thought back to when he was a child, watching his mother paint this very room. She didn't paint every tale and figure at once. He recalled her adding more and more over the years even when her children no longer became mystified by the creatures and characters. Still, Steve would never begrudge the time he spent listening to her stories as she painted them. More importantly to him, she would also sing in her clear-as-water tone, well known around town, mostly in Irish and old English.

He could practically her voice ring soothingly, like gentle echos from a time long gone. He shifted and glanced around, thinking where the time had gone. He remembered sleeping on that top bunk, watching the marks his mother made on the ceiling swirl in a spiral towards the center, a warm gold and red in the day, vague blue grey in the night.

Steve glanced up towards the center of the 'sun', a warm spiral that seemed to pull everything towards the center, the myths on the walls born from this 'sun'.

"This is very beautiful, Steve," said Diana, taking note of the wistful furrow in his brow. "Do you not think so?"

He couldn't keep his voice from cracking, "I do think so. Mom had tremendous creative talent. She told me myths and legends as stories, painted them here."

He pointed to a stony angular figure on the far wall, looming behind the bunks, thick lines outlining a beard and swirling blue waves around the figure.

"That's Manannán mac Lir; god of the sea. You remember _Harry Potter_? The _Invisibility Cloak_?" Steve jutted his thumb towards the painting of the god. "He was known to have one. So...that's pretty cool." He finished with a shrug and then pointed a series a small drawings depicting small humanoid creatures--something to Diana that seemed familiar. "And here you got your run-of-the-mill fairies. And will-o-whips"

Diana's lips parted, refraining from reminding him of her own encounter with fairies in her past. Some of the figures seemed to be accurate in part. Others, well--if there were fairies out there that resembled them, she hadn't seen them.

Steve's hand touched the wall on an image of a tree, a softly rounded female face etched in the bark, kindly gazing back at them. Steve's own expression softened as he uttered abruptly, "Danu, goddess of earth and life."

He moved on, relaying short innocuous tales as he described a few of the figures, as if he were giving a tour of a museum. Some were typical, the tale of Perseus, others, Diana struggled to identify where they could've come from. She still had much to learn about the folklore of man, it seemed.

"And these," Steve said pointing to a group of figures on the far west wall right below a modest-almost inconspicuous wooden cross, facing the children's bunks. "Are the _Bandruí._ Priestesses who protect their villages with magic and what not."

The women were drawn with sharp, hard angles, regal in design, heavy outlines that separated each from the other. Beyond their faces and angular features, they were depicted in white robes, yellow and gold lines surrounding them, bathing them in light. "They could be mistaken for Amazons," Diana bent down to get a closer look. Steve stood back, scratching his overgrown stubble, "Yeah, she told me tales about you guys too."

"All good, I hope."

The look he gave her, sheepish and non-confrontational, told her the opposite. "In her defense, Diana, she seemed rather impartial as she told me those stories. I don't think Hercules or Theseus impressed her much either."

The room filled a with a new ring as Diana's laughter carried delightfully in this time capsule. She imagined, quite vividly, the Trevor matriarch wrinkling her nose at the mere nonsense of the men in those stories. "I still think I'd like her very much."

"She was more prone to tell me fairy tales, some, I suspect, were made up, not tied to any folklore but her own," said Steve, his hand on the door handle, ready to leave his old room for now. He paused, not noticing Diana's gaze fall from this group of magical women to the thickened line they stood over, just a few inches from the floor. "What's this they're standing over? Earth?"

She was addressing what, upon further inspection, turned out to be segment of a serpentine creature, made with faded black and light blue outlines. It was thin and narrow, could be easily missed among the mass of other pictures that littered the walls. Still, it was apparent it stretched the entire length of the wall, making zig-zags, here and there, like the crooked angles from a medieval manuscript. Steve did not remember this.

"No idea. I don't think I ever noticed it before. I worked late nights later in high school, so she may have painted it when I was working, and I just never noticed it when I came fumbling into bed after work."

Taking her hand, and leaving the children's room behind, Steve lead her to the master bedroom, and for the moment, Diana’s scare from the basement was forgotten as Steve immediately plopped himself on the made bed. Small bits of dust and fabric dispersed in the air as his weight settled. The creaking underneath told that it was not only old, but also underused. Still, the neat crispness of the made bed was inviting to him who drove the full 10 hours from D.C to New Ossory.

Flat on his back, arms spread outwards, Steve’s face softened as he gave her a silly tired smile, eyes glinting in drowsy happiness, "I'm beat. I could use a nap."

She responded by rubbing his side, gently, "I guess _I'll_ be the one to carry all our bags in, then?"

His lips parted in a lopsided smile, and he reached his hand up to twirl one of her midnight curls. "I never said you had to do that. You could always take a nap with me."

His words were always innocent, but his mannerisms here suggested something less than. Rare, for a man who is used to being straight forward.

“Is that so?” Diana arched a brow at him, a smirk playing at her lips. “You’re rarely this forward, Steve. Normally, _I’m_ the one who has to coax you into putting out.”

Steve shrugged, sliding his hand up her outer thigh, playfully tracing circles, “We’d better make the most of it because when I get back to work it’s gonna be Puritan values and pearl clutching from then on.”

Diana snorted, “Depends on which pearls…”

Steve groaned after her double meaning and she gave him an aghast look, “And we’re back to clutching again!”

He felt he had not other choice to but to kiss her, soft and warm, just as the house was starting to warm on its own. He parted, settling himself even more on the bed, resigned.

"Self-conscious, are we?" her half teased drawl sparked nothing but pleasantness down his spine.

“No,” Steve shook his head as he splayed his arms back on the bed, “I just realized that we’d be Christening my mom’s bed.”

She gave a low chuckle at the concern and then immediately shifted to be directly on top of him, bending down to help him forget that he was even on a bed.

 

_His head, eyes, and neck throbbed horribly, a slashing red hotness across his forehead, as it had smashed into the hardened leather of the steering wheel. With a groan, Steve tilted his head back, blinking against the pain and the stiffness of his neck, struggling to remember what his name was or what he was doing. With an uneasy sigh, it all came back, the crumpled smoking front of his truck leaving little doubt as to what had happened._

_Suddenly, he was in a panic._ Oh, man, mom's gonna kill me,  _was his first coherent thought._ _His only excuse was the truth. At that realization, horror filled his chest as he gazed past the front of his truck, the second victim of the collision blocked from his view._

_Using his shoulder, Steve had to force his door open, the frame of the truck bent just enough out of shape, and he stumbled into the wintry night, snow falling heavily. Tucking his arms underneath his pits, he took cautious steps towards the front of the vehicle. The headlight miraculously still illuminated the road ahead, but as he inched forward he caught a glimpse of the body, heavily sprawled across the pavement. His breath hitched. The light bounced off tan and black spotted fur, the very delicate shape of a doe._

_Teeth chattering from nerves and cold, Steve got a closer look. The poor creature certainly looked dead, eyes wide open, mouth agape in a silent scream, blood oozing from its nostrils and jowls. He turned to look back at the damage to his truck and found, horrifyingly, that the crumpled grill was smeared and spattered with blood, dripping on the black pavement. Both the truck and the doe were at an obvious stand-still, making it seem like the whole universe froze in place.  
_

_Steve couldn't help but cringe. He'd gone hunting and fishing before, but this, seeing such a beautiful creature be maimed by his inattentiveness caused a heat of guilt flood through his veins. He was taught mindfulness by his mom and church, he was taught to respect the living and the peaceful, even times of hunting game. He did as every Maine boy did when he was taught to hunt, wandering the trees until he spotted his mark._  Aim for right under his front leg. That's where the heart is. It'll be quicker and less painful, _he remembered some nameless old man telling when he was first a part of a hunting party. He never remembered making his mark that trip. But he did remember eating a part of a heart of one deer, used it's skin for the rug in front of the fireplace, made venison steaks, and mounted the horns. Steve's home had become a shrine to that creature_ , _in a way._

_This doe, looking just as horrified as he was at her fate, now caused him to be painfully self aware of his existence's affect on others. There was no reason for her life to end. And there she was, alone in the middle of the road._

_"Shit," he bit out, breath dissipating in the headlight light. He then cried out, louder this time, "SHIT!"_

_Guilt melted into panic. Steve didn't know what to do. Just...leave her on the side of the road? Where people just drive by and gawk until the road cleanup crew was called? Steve glanced around, as if looking for both answers and witnesses. The only response he received from the empty night was woods and snow._ She must've jumped out from there, heading home, _he thought. Laying the poor animal to rest in her home forest seemed the least he could do. Letting out a shuddering sigh, he bent down and grabbed the doe by her back legs. He only gave a brief pause, before pulling, dragging the dead weight. The body scraped across the pavement cruelly, blood smearing even more, and Steve stopped himself, catching his breath._

_He partly couldn't believe what he was doing, out in the blistering cold with a damaged truck trying to drag a carcass into the woods for some respectable burial. That part would nag at him as he continued to pull the corpse through the snow, down the ditch, where he got stuck for he turned her around and hauled her up by the forelegs and neck. Not very delicate, thinking, disgusted, that he probably resembled a butcher laying a carcass on cold metal, and slaughtering it for it's guts, muscle, meat, and sinew._

_The bright glow from the truck could still be readily seen as he managed to pull the body to the forest's edge. How far he wanted to go, he didn't know. Steve was long prone to making things up as he want along, but hauling dead weight through brush, while being aware of the the further damage to the body being done as rocks, twigs and branches scratched and skinned, almost deteriorating in his quickly weakening grip. In the meanwhile, he sighed panicked apologies through his gritted teeth. Finally, the sharp sticks and rocks cleared into an open clearing covered white, glowing a blue in the moonlight from the opened canopy. He dragged the doe to the center, leaving a long mark through the perfect white of the fallen flakes.  
_

_He settled the body down with a grunt, seeing, now clearly in the moonlight of the moon, the cuts, scratches, dirt, mud and pebbles that marred the spotted fur. On the road, she looked a delicate panic in her expression, now, she barely resembled ever being a living thing. Because he was a fuckhead. Tired and maybe a little crazy, he wasn't sure, but the silent echos throughout the forest where beginning to be too much. Steve glanced around, feeling that suddenly everything could see him. That he was being watched through the trunks and branches of the pines as if peaking at his crime._

_When he got himself together, shaking the paranoia off of him quite literally as snow shifted off his shoulders, the corpse was covered in a thin layer of white, like a shroud, hiding the horrific injuries. He gave a pause, feeling a bit of relief settle in his heart at the sight, and then turned to trace the light of his truck. He wanted to leave. The trees were definitely closing in, creaking and swaying. Steve could spot the red and soft yellow glow of his truck, and he stumbled his way away from the moonlit clearing._

_The scene was undisturbed, quiet, when Steve returned, and the overwhelming feeling of_ something _was no longer there. Steve was glad to be alone._

_He checked the hood, finding that despite the steam, the engine seemed okay, the radiator was shot though. Taking bungee ropes he had stored in his truck, he bound what he could of the front grill and bumper to the hood. If he took it easy, he could make it home to tell his mother what had happened. He crawled in the driver's seat and put it into gear, grateful to feel the vehicle move. He pressed the gas to drive the rest of the way home, pausing and looking out his driver's seat window, where the trail of blood was being hidden by piling snow. Steve, then, found himself reflexively issuing a small, clumsy, silent prayer.  
_

 


End file.
